


Hopelessly Devoted To You

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Dirty Talk, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Musical References, POV Harry Potter, References to Canon Death (Fred Weasley), Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: Harry and George watch a lot of musicals and accidentally fall in love.
Relationships: Harry Potter/George Weasley
Comments: 81
Kudos: 662
Collections: Daily Deviant





	Hopelessly Devoted To You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keyflight790](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyflight790/gifts).



> Posted as part of Daily Deviant's [Kinky Kristmas](https://daily-deviant.dreamwidth.org/10426.html) comment fest with permission from the mods due to length of the work. Do check out the other fab works from the fest! 
> 
> Massive thanks to Keyflight for the **glorious** prompt of Harry/George, dirty talk, fingering and 'there are things they can only get up to in the dark'. I'm so sorry this got so long. You hit on a pairing I see little of and adore so I took the opportunity to go wild with it. Thank you for a terrific amount of inspiration.
> 
>  **ETA:** I have taken the part in parenthesis out of the title as it was bugging me! It didn't look right. Nothing else has changed <3

Harry’s enjoying a small tub of vanilla ice-cream and a matinee performance of _Wicked_ when realisation finally dawns. Amidst soaring vocals and plenty of green lighting, a warm rush of affection travels through his body at the press of George’s arm against his own. The heat travels lower and Harry stops eating his ice-cream with a gulp. 

“This is one of my favourites so far. Miles better than _Jersey Boys_.” George’s hot breath tickles Harry’s ear sending an unexpected—but not unpleasant—shiver down his spine. “Any toffees left?”

“No.” Harry’s voice is thick, and he makes every effort to concentrate on the stage. It’s difficult to pay attention to things like toffees or plot when you’re trying not to get a semi thinking about shagging one of your best mates. “Sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter.” George sits back in his seat and Harry misses his closeness immediately. “We’ll get one of those big bags next time,” he says through the corner of his mouth. “Toffees and fruit pastilles.”

Harry nods, feeling particularly stupid about the fact that fancying George has only just occurred to him. On one hand, it shouldn’t be such a surprise. They spend most of their free time together these days. On the other hand, it’s _George_. Harry’s firm friend and the only person who would ever agree to brave the West End weekend crowds to watch musical theatre because it makes Harry happy. Ron thinks Harry’s mad as a jar of Cornish Pixies, Hermione thinks they should try _The Vagina Monologues_ and Percy can’t understand for the life of him why anybody would go and see a Muggle play about witches. George doesn’t question any of it. He just turns up at Bella Italia for a quick carbonara and a glass of lemonade, then lets Harry drag him off to sit in a packed theatre for a few hours. 

It’s not just musicals, either. They’ve been flying countless times and watched Quidditch matches together, arguing over whether the Appleby Arrows are going to beat the Ballycastle Bats. Lately they’ve been meeting after work in the evening, spending hours in one of Islington’s quietest pubs, putting the world to rights. When Harry has a bad day at work, or a bad day in general, it’s George he contacts. Last month when Harry paid his usual half yearly visit to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, George insisted on picking him up from Privet Drive. Without any fanfare he took Harry to Hamleys, the huge toy store on Regent Street. _Always wanted to see this place,”_ George said, cheerfully. Harry left clutching a bag containing a perfect replica of Simba from _The Lion King_ , the nicest soft toy he’s ever owned. He thanked George who slung a casual arm around his shoulder and pulled him close, murmuring _no worries_.

George just gets it. He doesn’t make Harry feel embarrassed for the times he wants to be a big kid again, living the childhood he never got to have. He doesn’t think it’s stupid that a man in his twenties would be so happy mooching around a toy shop clearly designed for young children. He just wandered off to play with the miniature helicopters and when he returned, he handed Harry a bag with the little lion inside, his cheeks pink and his smile broad. George and Harry have both experienced the heaviness of grief and have seen the kind of darkness that never really goes away, but they share a gritty determination to fly headfirst into the storm clouds and find comfort in seeing new places and doing new things. Even in George’s serious moments just being quiet with him makes Harry happy. 

George spends months creating magical products that give people joy and he’s never let anyone tell him he should consider doing something more serious. Even when his products have proved useful to the Ministry, he refuses to sign too many contracts that would take away from inventing the light-hearted products that keep Hogwarts pupils returning to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes year after year. He’s also not afraid to piss off The Powers That Be with tongue-in-cheek references to particularly onerous aspects of Ministry politics. He’s smart and interesting, easy-going and so much fun to be around. 

Harry sneaks a glance at George, who’s beaming at the stage. He’s funny, kind and _fit_ , Harry realises with a start. George Weasley is fit, with his strong arms and broad smile. His red hair is messy and thick and his lips—Merlin, his _lips_ —part in an _oh_ of pleasure. He’s good looking in a bashful kind of way, with a firm, angular jaw and the best smile Harry’s ever seen. His comfortable brown leather jacket has a familiar, homely scent to it and when his arm presses back against Harry’s it makes his breath catch in his throat. It’s a disaster. Harry can’t be thinking about George in that kind of way. Can he? George is one of his best friends. He’s _family_ , sort of.

George laughs at something on stage and it’s impossible not to smile in response. His laugh is rich and warm, a proper sort of laugh that makes Harry feel instantly at home. There was a long time when George barely laughed or smiled at all and seeing him do so now makes Harry’s heart kick. It’s good, to see George happy. It’s really good. Harry swallows and looks away before George catches him staring. He’s grateful for the dark and hopes it masks the heat he can feel spreading up his neck and into his cheeks. They’ve both disclosed their interest in other men but the idea they might be interested in one another has never come up. Not once. _Probably because he isn’t interested in you_ , Harry tells himself a little mournfully.

“Everything okay?” George whispers in Harry’s ear again and his hand settles on Harry’s knee. George has large hands. Large hands and long fingers. Harry swallows thickly. “You look like our Ron does when he’s checking under the bed for spiders.”

George is maddeningly close and still not nearly close enough. Harry turns to him and he’s sure his feelings must be written all over his face. He’s never been good at hiding his emotions, even in a dark theatre with a million other things to distract them. Stricken, he opens his mouth and closes it again as everything he wants to say can’t possibly be said out loud. Harry has no words left inside him that won’t risk ruining one of his closest friendships.

George frowns as he takes in the look on Harry’s face. They hold one another’s gaze for a breathless minute before a smile tugs at George’s lips, his eyes shining. He leans in to whisper something else but before he can say anything, a woman behind them pokes them on the shoulders with a sharp prod of her fingers.

“Ssh!” The woman leans into the space between them, her expression cross. “Stop talking. You’re ruining the show.”

With a light shrug, George mimes zipping his lips. He gives Harry a wink and turns back to the stage.

Harry tries to concentrate on the play, but it becomes impossible when George’s hand returns to Harry’s knee.

He has another spoon of his ice cream and tries to ignore the way his skin burns beneath the light press of George’s palm.

*

Harry couldn’t tell anyone how _Wicked_ ends, the last half hour a total blur. He falls into step beside George as they shoulder their way through the busy streets of the West End, making a beeline for Diagon Alley.

A strange silence stretches between them. It’s not awkward, not exactly, but it’s charged with things unspoken and the air between them has taken on a different quality. Perhaps they need to be in the cover of darkness again before they can talk about the way George’s thumb rubbed slow circles on Harry’s knee, the hot press of arm against arm and the eventual twining of their fingers together as they held hands in the dark until their palms were hot and sweaty. It’s as if Soho’s busy streets are too bright and loud to have a serious conversation about any of it. 

Perhaps George doesn’t think they need to have a conversation at all. What if George is just a tactile person? Perhaps holding hands is no different to buying a person a toy lion or turning up on Harry's doorstep, windswept and eager after making up a game of Water Quidditch to play over the Irish Sea just because Sundays are boring. So many possibilities hum and twist between them, that by the time George stops to peer into the window of a small pub, Harry’s fit to burst. He’s dying to know what George wanted to say in the theatre and the effort of keeping his newfound realisation to himself is almost painful. 

“Perce has been on about this place for ages,” George says. “Best fish and chips in London according to the _Prophet_. It’s not often they recommend Muggle haunts.” George seems totally unphased by Harry’s emotional tumult, peering into the window of nearby pub as if can taste the food if he presses close enough to the glass. “We should bring him with us next time if he can bear to drag himself away from his books long enough to have some fun.”

“We should?” Harry frowns at George’s back, because bringing Percy out with them is the last thing on his mind. “He told me green witches are the stupidest thing he’s ever heard of and suggested we go to Stratford-Upon-Avon to see some bloke called Shakespeare instead.”

“Maybe we won’t ask him to come with us, then.” George laughs and moves back from the window, walking alongside Harry as they pick up their pace again. “Anyway,” he continues conversationally, “I like it when it’s just the two of us. Wouldn’t want Ron stealing the toffees or Charlie spending all afternoon talking about dragons.”

“Ron does like toffees,” Harry agrees. He grins up at George who gives him a soft smile in return. It leaves Harry warm all over. “I like it when it’s just the two of us too.”

“That’s alright then.” George tightens his jaw, looking away for a minute as he gets his bearings. “You know, I don’t think you’ve ever told me why you like musicals so much. It’s always the West End but never plays, comedy or music.”

“I like those too.” Harry shrugs. “It’s stupid. Just something from when I was a kid.”

“Tell me.” George sounds encouraging. “I won’t think it’s stupid.”

“You might,” Harry mutters. With a sigh he pushes a hand into his pocket and slides his fingers over his wand, the thrum of magic settling him as it always does when he thinks about childhood. “Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon got Dudley tickets to a musical in London one summer. They wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks. Pre-theatre dinner at that steakhouse place in Leicester Square, a shopping trip in the afternoon to buy Dudley more presents. They didn’t let me go of course—I had to clean the oven after Aunt Petunia fucked it up trying to roast a goose in it—but I found the programme and the tickets soon after they got back. All crumpled up, like they didn’t even matter. They’d forgotten all about London by the weekend.”

“I bet they had.” George sounds angry. He’s always been defensive of Harry when it comes to the Dursleys, even though he knows things are different now. Dudley, in particular, has changed. He’s even been to the Burrow a couple of times. “What musical was it?”

“ _Grease_.” Harry pushes a hand through his hair and gives George a quick smile. “I spent so long looking at the pictures I think I went cross-eyed staring at Kenickie.”

“Didn’t we all?” George laughs. “All that leather. A boy would be daft not to feel something.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s gaze lingers on George’s soft, brown leather jacket, a hot flush rising in his cheeks. _Grease_ was the first musical he dragged George along to, insisting it was the best. He’d already seen it four times by then, back in the days when he went to shows by himself. “It’s miles better than _Cats_.” 

“Miles,” George agrees. He hated _Cats_ , although it was in part responsible for inspiring his best-selling Singing Kneazles, a range of toy Kneazles that each sing a different Celestina Warbeck classic. The 'You Stole My Cauldron But You Can’t Have My Heart' Kneazle became a sought after collectors’ item when its limited edition run sold out in a matter of minutes. “Did you move to Grimmauld Place after school and decide to check out the West End soon after?”

“Not quite,” Harry replies. “It happened by accident. I hadn’t thought about that trip to London for years. Me and Ron had been working on a case for two nights on the trot. We gave ourselves the afternoon off after we finally worked out what was going on. I was still buzzing from getting all the loose ends tied up, so I decided to go for a beer in Soho.”

“A beer?” George raises an eyebrow, his voice teasing. “Just what’s needed after forty-eight hours at work, I’d say. A _beer_.” 

“I wasn’t trying to pull someone.” Harry laughs and pushes a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the way George makes a simple word like ‘beer’ sound like pure sex. “Or maybe I was, I dunno. Nobody seemed particularly interested in getting off with me at three in the afternoon.”

“Clearly Muggle men don’t know a good thing when he walks through the door, looking for something more exciting than my brother eating chocolate digestives and moaning on about Dawlish,” George replies. “More fool them.”

“If you say so.” Harry shoots George a questioning look, but his expression is as placid as ever. “After a quick pint in the Admiral I got itchy feet and decided to go for a wander. Carnaby Street, Covent Garden, Leicester Square, Chinatown. Somewhere along the way I stumbled across one of those half-price ticket booths, plastered in posters. I recognised the one for _Grease_ and got a ticket for that evening. The rest is history.”

“You watched them hand-jive and never looked back,” George says with a laugh. “Imagine what would’ve happened if that aunt and uncle of yours had taken old Dudders to the opera. I’d be snoring by the intermission. I’m glad they got you into musicals, not _Madame Butterfly_.”

“Aunt Petunia pretended she loved the opera when the neighbours were round. I might try it one day, just wait.” Harry grins at George. “Do you even like musicals?”

“Yeah, I like them.” George slings his arm around Harry’s shoulder and gives a quick squeeze before releasing him. It’s a casual, brotherly gesture but he smells so good and his body is so warm it leaves Harry’s heart beating rapidly. “ _Hamilton_ was brilliant and I’ve enjoyed more than I’ve hated. Even the ones I didn’t like were fun. Besides, I like to get out of the flat.”

“You do?” Intellectually, Harry knows George is rarely at home. He has so much going on it’s a wonder he finds time to sleep. He’d imagined George was more settled now though, after a cosy flat above his shop in Diagon Alley finally came on the market. “I thought you liked the new place.”

“I love the flat, it’s not that.” George shrugs, his smile fading and a cloudy expression crossing his face. “I just hate quiet weekends. Everybody else is out having fun and I’m lazing around in my underpants, mooning over old photos. Freddie wouldn’t have wanted it. He’d say _You’re alive, Earless! Don’t waste it. You’re living for two of us now_.” George gives Harry a wry smile. “It feels wrong not having adventures when Freddie can’t do anything anymore.”

George stops, his throat working. Without thinking, Harry slips his hand into George’s and holds on tight. He’s heard George speak like this before, as if relaxing for one minute is an insult to Fred’s memory. He’s seen it in the irrepressible energy George puts into new adventures. George studies Harry with an unusually serious expression. He looks as though he wants to say something but seems to decide against it, squeezing Harry’s hand before releasing it. Harry stuffs his hands back in his pockets and keeps his head down when they walk, avoiding a couple of scraggly pigeons searching for crumbs. “

What do you think Fed would say about us watching Muggle musicals?” Harry asks.

“He’d call us a right pair of twats.” George lets out a watery laugh and tilts his head up to the sky, huffing out a breath. “Wouldn’t you, Freddie?”

“I reckon he’d have enjoyed _The Greatest Showman_. The cinema’s a bit cooler than the theatre and there’s popcorn.” Harry can’t imagine the full impact losing Fred had on George, but he knows how far he’s come. Harry was around for the years when George had to crawl his way up from rock bottom. It’s why Harry always makes sure they have a plan on the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. He also understands the way quiet houses can sometimes seem full of ghosts. “I like keeping busy too.”

“I heard.” George sounds serious. “I recognise what avoiding those quiet houses of ours looks like, you know. I know how big the night can get when you’re alone with your thoughts.”

Harry swallows, keeping close to George’s side as they wander slowly through a quieter part of London, having left the hustle and bustle of the theatre district far behind. The night does get big, sometimes. It looms, heavy and long as the shadows crawl over the walls and Harry tosses and turns in bed.

“Some nights are so big I can’t sleep,” Harry replies at last. “In winter they start in the afternoon and I hate those days when it’s like the sun never comes up. I go into the Ministry to take my mind off stuff.”

“I know you do. Ron mentioned.” George nudges his arm against Harry’s in response, their fingertips brushing. “I do it too. I go into work when I shouldn’t be there, just to make time hurry along a bit faster. Violet and the others always tell me to bugger off. Nobody wants their boss hovering around like a Billywig.”

George takes out his wand and taps on the bricks to get them into Diagon Alley. He catches Harry’s arm once they’re through the opening and manoeuvres them both out of the way of the crowds moving around them. The bricks slot back into place as they find a quiet nook. George doesn’t take his hand from Harry’s arm. His hold is firm and sure, his eyes full of heat as he studies Harry carefully. The space gets small and breathless and it’s all Harry can do not to pull George into a kiss. 

“It’s never a bother if you want some company,” George says. “We don’t always have to go out on some mad adventure. I’d come over just to sit and make the quiet less loud. Nobody should have to spend their weekends filing.”

“Thanks.” Harry studies George, whose pale cheeks are lightly flushed. A smile tugs at his lips. “It’s no bother for me to get to Diagon Alley either. You don’t have to make up a new Quidditch game because you want something to distract you.”

“It has its uses, that game was _brilliant_.” George grins and guides Harry back into the crowds with a light hand on the small of his back. 

The gentle touch sends a shiver down Harry’s spine and he’s sure he’s not going mad. George has always been the sort for hugs, but he’s never been _this_ tactile. It makes Harry’s skin tingle with excitement and he wants to get somewhere nobody else is around, somewhere they can finally talk about the other things that sit unsaid between them. 

“That game _was_ brilliant,” Harry says. “I’d be up for that again.”

“Me too,” George laughs. He gives Harry a quick glance. “You know I pester you enough as it is. You’re the first person I get in touch with most of the time. Why do you think I wanted to go flying every weekend for two months on the trot?”

“Because flying’s amazing,” Harry replies. “Why _wouldn’t_ you want to go flying every weekend for two months?”

“A very good question, Harry.” George comes to a stop outside Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. “We’re a good match you and me,” he says softly. “Both excellent at finding ways to keep those ghosts of ours at bay.”

“Better together than apart,” Harry agrees. He looks at George, his tone serious. “It does no harm to let those ghosts in sometimes though. We have to deal with them occasionally.”

“Yeah.” George swallows and nods. “It’d be even lonelier without them I reckon. I’d prefer to have ghosts than nothing at all. It’s when they don’t let me sleep that it’s bad.”

“I know,” Harry replies. In a moment of recklessness, he takes a breath and speaks in a rush. “It’s not just the daytime I’m available for. You know if the night ever gets lonely, we could always—”

Harry’s cut off in his tracks as a group of laughing witches and wizards knock into them shouting their apologies as they eagerly push their way into the shop before it closes for the day. Harry’s heart thuds in his chest at the way George looks at him, knowing and fond. From the way he contemplates Harry, George clearly understands—and doesn’t mind—that Harry was one step away from suggesting he could keep George company at night. George isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what such a suggestion implies. Harry certainly didn’t have a platonic sleepover in mind.

“I can Apparate from here,” Harry says. He really doesn’t want to leave but they often end their afternoons together with Harry returning home and George checking on things at the shop. He extracts his wand and looks around at the bustling crowds. “I could walk but I can’t be bothered with the crowds today.”

“Everyone’s out and about.” George rubs his hands together for warmth. He adjusts his scarf around his neck and meets Harry’s eyes, his gaze intense. “You don’t have to go. It looks like there’s a storm brewing. You could come up to mine before it sets in. I’ve got beers and pizza and as much as I love a good thunderstorm, they’re better when someone else is around.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s heart skips, relief flooding through him. The tentative moment is fragile enough that he’s worried if he leaves now it’s going to take them another few years to get back to this point. He’s only been to George’s place a handful of times and it’s usually just to pick George up before they go somewhere. “It’s about time. I’ve been dying to have a proper look around your fancy flat.”

“It _is_ fancy, isn’t it? Thank fuck I’ve got a sister in law that knows something about interior design.” George’s chest puffs out with pride. “Who’d have thought we’d end up here? You, a brilliant Auror, and me making my fortune on Singing Kneazles, Demon Dung and U-No-Poo.”

“I never doubted you’d make your fortune for a minute,” Harry replies. 

“I know.” George gives Harry a smile and steps back, gesturing for him to go first. “After you, Harry.”

Shooting George a quick smile, Harry enters the busy shop. It takes a while to get through to the small door behind the till with the _Staff Only_ sign. Half the customers want to take pictures with George and the other half want to take pictures with Harry. When they’re finally on the stairs with the shop door closed firmly behind them, George lets out a sigh of relief.

“At least I’m only famous in the shop. I don’t know how you do it, being famous everywhere else.”

“It’s not that bad anymore.” Harry shrugs. 

He really means it, too. The papers still like to make up stupid stories about his love life, but the mad, frenzied period of fame after the war has ebbed somewhat. He’s always going to be recognisable, but there are new Quidditch stars and new celebrities. It helps that most of them actually like the spotlight and have far more interesting lives than an Auror in his mid-twenties who spends most of his time working or watching Muggle musicals. 

“That’s another reason you like the theatre, I bet.” George opens the door, giving Harry a very distracting view of his arse as he bends over to pick up the mail. “No photos allowed.”

Harry murmurs his agreement and slips off his coat, hanging it next to George’s. He kicks off his trainers and follows George into the living room, the darkening skies making the room shadowy. The pitter-patter of the first fat drops of rain make the small space seem cosier than usual. It’s sparsely decorated but there’s a funky, fashionable edge to the décor that was in part thanks to Fleur’s critical eye and in part George’s fondness for acquiring cool items from antiques fairs in London. 

There’s a hum of possibility in the air that makes Harry think of the slow, steady circles George traced on his knee, the firmness of a sure hand and the thrill of warm breath against his ear. He swallows back another pulse of arousal, mentally chastising himself for being so bloody horny around George. They’re _friends_. They might have been spending more time together than ever over the last year but without vocal confirmation that his feelings are reciprocated, Harry can’t just dive in like he always does. Not with George. Not until he knows for certain that his sense that something’s shifted between them is right. However intuitive Harry might be when he’s working, he doesn’t have enough experience with matters of the heart to pick up on the signs. 

“Rain’s started.” Harry watches George strip out of his jumper, his breath catching in his throat as the motion cause’s George’s t-shirt to ride up. He tears his eyes away and makes a show of looking through George’s records. He’s always been into music and vinyl is one thing that works as well in the magical world as the Muggle one. Arthur was tremendously disappointed to discover George had decided against investing in something Muggle. “Is your dad still on about getting you a CD player?”

“Sort of.” George laughs. “He thinks I need a Hi-Fi. They had one in the Ministry and he spent hours listening to an old Boomtown Rats cassette, which I’m amazed he even managed to play with all the magic around. They’ve got tricks to get around that in the Ministry, I suppose. I can’t be bothered to get electricity to work here. Magic suits me just fine.”

“I’ll have to get him something good for his birthday.” Harry smiles, thinking about Arthur’s delighted face when he showed Harry his new torch the other week. “Something that’ll work in the Burrow.”

“I’ll help you look. I’m just hoping he doesn’t discover the Internet for a while.” George hands Harry a beer and goes to take a sip of his own, pausing before it reaches his lips. He lowers the beer and gives Harry a steady look, considering his next words carefully. “Mum thinks I’m daft for you. Did you know that?”

“No.” Harry shakes his head, his heart racing in his chest. “She’s never said anything to me.”

“She wouldn’t.” George laughs, low in his throat. “Totally unreciprocated, she reckons. She thinks you still have a soft spot for Gin which would be rubbish for you if you did. She doesn’t seem to give two hoots about snogging Dean whenever you’re around.”

“That’s because she knows I’m not bothered. We’re friends, that’s all.” Harry laughs too, a pleasant warmth travelling through him. “Your mum’s wrong.”

“Oh.” George’s eyes widen and he takes a long gulp of his beer. “About Gin or—?”

“Both.” Harry holds George’s gaze. “Wrong about the soft spot, wrong about _unreciprocated_. I dunno if she’s wrong about you being daft about me. Is she?”

“Nope.” George puts his bottle of beer down next to Harry’s. “It all got a bit ‘Hopelessly Devoted To You’ somewhere between _Grease_ and _Wicked_. I’m not sure when things changed, but they did. They’ve been different for a while now. For me, at least.”

“It’s different for me too. I’m sorry it took me so long,” Harry says, sheepishly. “You’d think I’d have realised sooner.”

“Doesn’t matter.” George shrugs, his cheeks flushed pink. “We got there in the end.”

“We did.” Harry looks at George, hopefully. “If you wanted to show me the rest of the flat—like the bedroom or something—I’d be alright with that.”

“Bloody hell.” George snorts with laughter. “Ask a boy out to dinner first, Harry.”

“We’ve been out to dinner loads.” Harry grins. “I got you a lovely carbonara earlier. Picked up the bill and everything.”

“You did, didn’t you?” George’s voice is low and sexy as hell. Why has Harry never noticed how fucking _filthy_ George can sound when he’s teasing him? He bites back a groan when George’s hand settles on his hip, keeping him close. “It’s not very Gryffindor of us, tip-toeing around this for so long. We’re like a pair of baby Kneazles.”

“I’m not tip-toeing around it now,” Harry decides.

He presses into George’s arms and seals their lips together. The kiss is a little harder than he intended, and it makes George respond with an _umph_ of surprise. He pulls back and stares. For a minute Harry thinks he’s fucked everything up. He opens his mouth to apologise, but before he can get the words out, he finds himself on the receiving end of a kiss so searching it steals the breath from his lungs. With a groan Harry wraps his arms around George tightly. Their tongues slide together, their mouths wet and hot. George tastes faintly of toffee and beer and he’s as good at kissing as he is flying—confident and completely uninhibited.

Harry sinks into the kiss, his whole body alive with the thrum and pulse of his desire. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so needy, so fully invested in one kiss in a dark room as the rain falls heavy outside. He groans when their bodies press together just right and he moves against George, who’s just as hard as he is. He pushes a hand into George’s hair and deepens the kiss, finding himself wandering clumsily back as George surges forward. As elegant as Harry is when he’s duelling or on a broom, he’s less elegant when his brain is melting out of his ears. It’s a wonder they don’t both topple over, but after a couple of unsteady steps his back thuds against the nearest wall. 

The new position intensifies the already scorching hot kiss and Harry sucks in a breath when George grinds into him. His breath falters and he bites back a cry when George begins to yank at his belt buckle. With fumbling hands, Harry undoes George’s trousers. He finds George thick and hard, his cock leaking at the tip. The feel of him in Harry’s fist makes his mouth water, and he curls his fingers around George. The pleasure that sears through him when George wraps a reciprocal hand around Harry’s cock is more intense than any he’s felt in a very long time. He’s been so busy he hasn’t had much intimacy beyond self-gratification in ages. The sensation of George touching him—the delicious unknown—brings Harry close to the edge in a matter of minutes.

“You feel so good.” George breaks the silence between them at last, his voice gruff. The low rumble of his words and the hot breath in Harry’s ear sends another wave of pleasure down the length of his spine. “So fucking _hot_. I want to—” 

George breaks off with a growl and Harry drops his head back to expose his throat to more of George’s kisses. He wants to know what George wants to do to him. He wants all of it. The dirty talk, the desperate, biting kisses. He wants to know what George wanted to say to Harry in the theatre. He wants to hear George’s voice suffused with desire, wants to sink into his gorgeous, filthy promises and never come up for air.

“Tell me,” Harry says through gritted teeth. George squeezes his hand and it makes Harry’s words stutter and stumble. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”

“Yeah?” George sounds unsure and eager at the same time. “You like that?”

“I like it—” Harry stops to grunt out a curse as George flicks his thumb over the sensitive head of Harry’s cock. “ _Fuck_. Yeah, I do apparently.” He lets out a rough laugh. “It’s news to me too.”

“Is that right?” George laughs softly, his grip on Harry easing. He seems like he’s going to move away but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps Harry firmly against the wall and takes him in his hand again. He mutters a familiar lubrication charm that leaves Harry’s cock deliciously slick. “You’re so good like this.” He nips Harry’s earlobe between his teeth and trails damp kisses along the line of his jaw. “Do you like being fingered?”

“I don’t kn-know,” Harry stutters. Fucking _hell_. The thought is enough to leave Harry’s brain even more frazzled than it already is. He sucks in a breath, _fuck_ he’s so close. “I haven’t done that.”

“ _Why_?” George’s voice is so warm, sliding like syrup over Harry’s skin and making everything tingle. “You’re gorgeous. Bet you’re brilliant stretched out and begging. I can just picture how good you’d be, my fingers buried deep in your lovely—”

With a strangled sound that lodges in the back of his throat, Harry’s orgasm burns through him with an intensity that nearly brings him to his knees. He clutches onto George, gulping in the hot air between them. His whole body is loose and shaky, his head spinning with everything that just happened. George’s fucking _hands_. Thinking about doing something like that—something Harry’s always wanted but hasn’t explored—is a lot. In a good way. The kind of good that snatches every single sensible word away from him.

“You haven’t come yet,” Harry says, his voice raspy. He clears his throat and gulps in another breath. “Give me a sec.”

“I can wait,” George gives Harry a quick kiss. He sounds amused and pleased with himself, as well he should be. “Don’t worry about it. Take your time.”

“Thanks, mate.” Harry rolls his eyes with a laugh at the smug note in George’s tone. He decides it's time to change that, to show George in no uncertain terms that Harry isn't the kind of selfish arse who's going to get off then make a cup of tea. “What if I don’t want you to wait?”

To emphasise his point, Harry slides his mouth over George’s jaw and down his neck. He slips his hand under George’s t-shirt and brushes his fingers lightly over George’s belly, taking in the way the muscles clench beneath his touch as George lets out a gruff _unnff_ of appreciation. Without further ado, Harry sinks to his knees. He slides his hands over George’s thighs, biting back a groan of approval. When he looks up, he’s pleased to note that George no longer looks quite as in control of things. To the contrary. His cheeks are deep pink and his eyes dark and wide as he stares at Harry as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. With a small grin, Harry pulls back just enough to nudge George’s trousers and pants down. 

“Everything okay down there?” George’s voice wobbles, his hand tangling in Harry’s hair.

“I’d say so.” Harry moves his mouth eagerly over the sizeable bulge in George’s boxers, noting the shudder of pleasure it elicits. He pulls back and sits on his heels, looking up at George. “Do you like that?”

“Y-yes. _Please_.” George’s voice is breathless, and his hand tightens into a fist in Harry’s hair. Harry decides to take pity on him. 

“Then I hope you like this too,” Harry murmurs. He nudges down George’s pants and slides his mouth over the length of George’s cock, taking him into the back of his throat.

The room is quiet and shadowy, the darkness making everything even more intimate and sending a thrum of arousal through Harry’s body. There’s a secretive pleasure in darkness, and an uninhibited boldness grips him. It gives Harry the confidence he has when he’s blowing a stranger—a confidence that would leave him entirely if he looked up and saw George, because George _matters_. He sucks George slowly, pinning him in place with firm hands on George’s parted thighs. 

Harry takes his time, tasting every inch of exposed skin, enjoying the stretch of his lips and the heavy weight of George in his mouth. After building up to the point where George begins babbling pleas and curses above him, Harry really gets to work. _No messing around_ , he decides. He intensifies his efforts and moves quickly over George in the way he’s always enjoyed himself when he’s been on the receiving end of a wet, eager mouth. The sounds in the quiet room mingle with the sound of rainfall as the storm picks up pace outside. He makes sure George knows how much Harry’s enjoying himself, with a hum here and there and the press of fingers into skin. 

It doesn’t take long before George makes a strangled sound and yanks at Harry’s hair in warning. Blissfully turned on, Harry moves back just enough to let George finish with a shout as he fists his cock in his hand and spills himself over Harry’s chin and throat. In a tender gesture, he tips Harry’s chin back and the look behind his eyes sends a dizzying warmth across Harry’s skin. With a soft sound, Harry tips his head into George’s palm and nuzzles against him as they both catch their breath.

“Shit.” George leans back against the wall with a thud. He looks a bit dazed. “That was— _fuck_.”

“Yeah.” Harry finds his proper voice at last. After murmuring a quick cleaning charm, he reaches for the glasses he discarded before he pounced on George and gets to his feet. He shoves his glasses on his face and everything is clear again. He catches George’s lips in a slow, warm kiss that’s returned with lazy, sensual pressure. “Are you going to show me your bedroom now?”

George laughs and he takes hold of Harry’s hand, leading the way down the narrow hallway as the rain continues to beat on the roof outside.

*

Harry goes for a piss and washes his hands, finally starting to feel normal again by the time he joins George in the bedroom. The room is cosy with exposed brickwork, some vintage style Quidditch pictures and a huge, king-sized bed that sits low on the dark wooden floor. George is stretched out on the bed, still fully clothed apart from his socks. A few candles cast a warm light in the room.

“All done.” Harry gives George a smile. “Want me to blow you again?”

“Are you always this romantic?” George laughs with a huff. “I lit candles.” 

“Nice.” Harry grins and pulls off his socks before settling next to George on the bed. Everything seems different in the light of the room. A thrill of anticipation settles in his belly and he slides his fingers between George’s, a light clasp of hands like their moment in the dark theatre. “What happens next?”

“Whatever you want.” George raises his eyebrows at Harry, a smile quirking at his lips. “You can say if there’s something you want.”

“I thought we could do what you said out there.” Harry waves his hand vaguely, heat crawling up his neck and into his cheeks. “Fingers and stuff.”

George gives Harry’s hand a squeeze before releasing it, propping himself up on his elbow to trace said fingers lightly over Harry’s chest. Even through the thin cotton of his t-shirt the touch makes Harry’s body sing with pleasure. Watching George’s fingers travel a careful path makes Harry’s stomach twist pleasantly, a shiver of arousal travelling through him. 

“Have you really never done that before?” George asks.

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “Is it weird that I haven’t?”

“’Course not.” George mercifully looks as flushed as Harry feels. “I just thought you might have been saying it in the moment. Some people are into pretending it’s their first time or something, I dunno.” George laughs under his breath. “It’s not weird. Not at all.”

“I know the _Prophet_ seem to think I’m working my way through the Department of International Cooperation, half the Aurors and the Holyhead Harpies, but there haven’t been nearly as many people as everyone seems to think,” Harry admits. “Hardly any wizards and only one that fucked me. It was a one off and we used spells. It was over quicker than Warbeck’s ‘Cauldron Full Of Hot, Strong Love.’”

“I see,” George replies quietly. He leans in and brushes Harry’s hair from his forehead. “If it’s not something you fancy, I don’t care. I’ve not had sex that felt as good as that in as long as I can remember.”

“Of course I fancy it,” Harry scoffs. “You’ve been driving me mad with those hands of yours all afternoon.” 

He stands and pulls off his glasses, leaving them on the bedside table. He tugs off his t-shirt and jeans, dropping them on the floor. He gets back on the bed and turns on his side to face George, not missing the way his eyes travel over Harry’s body with unmistakable hunger. 

“Hi.” Harry breathes out, holding George’s gaze. He leans forward and tugs at the base of George’s t-shirt. “Your turn.”

“Anything you say pet.” Affable as ever, George takes off his clothes leaving just his boxers on. He returns to the bed and lies on his side like Harry, watching him with a small smile on his face. “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”

Harry can’t help but feel like a giddy teenager again, tentative and uncertain. Of course George knows that he’s holding something back. He’s always been intuitive when it comes to Harry. Fortunately, Harry knows exactly what he wants. He just hopes it doesn’t sound strange. It’s _George_ , his brain reminds him. Fit, lovely George. _You can tell him_ , Harry urges himself. _Just be honest_.

“Can we put the candles out?” Harry’s voice catches in his throat. 

“If you like.” George reaches for his wand and flicks it, dousing the candles with a quick _Nox_. “This better not be about my missing ear. There are some that find it quite sexy, Harry.”

“I should know, I’m one of them.” Harry laughs. He pauses, shifting close enough to George that he can feel the length of his body, the heat of his skin. He runs his fingers over George’s chest, taking in the way his heart beats and the stutter and catch of his breath. “I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to take the piss.” 

“Not taking the piss, Harry.” George’s voice sounds a little strangled and he settles his hand on Harry’s side. “Definitely not taking the piss.”

“Sometimes I hate the dark but other times I love it, especially when I’m not alone.” Harry tries to find the right words to explains how sexy he finds the quiet night and the shadows. “It’s how I get off, usually.” Even talking about it leaves Harry feeling alert and eager again, his body tingling with pleasure. “I’m not very good at talking about sex or letting everything go. It’s easier when the lights are off and I don’t worry about making stupid faces. Sometimes I just want to _feel_.”

“I understand,” George says. His voice is quiet. He moves his thumb lightly against Harry’s cheek. “Have you ever tried blindfolds?”

“No.” Harry’s breath comes quicker at the idea. “Have you?”

“No,” George says. He presses a soft kiss to Harry’s hot cheek. “But I’d try it with you if you want, one night.”

“Yeah.” Harry licks his dry lips and nods, heat twisting through him. He wants another night with George. He wants all the nights with George. “I want.”

“Hmm.” George’s voice is soft. He moves his hands and squeezes Harry’s backside pulling their bodies together. He trails a line of kisses down Harry’s exposed throat with a low hum of pleasure. “Do you want to feel now?”

“Please.” Harry is glad of the dark because he knows his cheeks must be flushed bright red. “I want to feel everything with you.”

“ _Fuck_.” George’s voice is rougher now. “Grab the lube. It’s in the drawer next to you. We’ll do things the fun way. I’m not taking shortcuts with spells and magic like that other flash bastard of yours.”

“We can do it whatever way you want.” Harry chuckles at the disgruntled note in George’s voice. The fact that George would be jealous of some idiot Harry barely even remembers is ridiculous. He rummages through the cabinet and hands George the lube when he finds it. “I wouldn’t wanted to use _Accio_ , as we’re avoiding magic,” he teases.

“You’d have been hit from all angles by flying lube,” George agrees cheerfully. The image makes them both laugh. “Some spells are fine if you must. Don’t suppose you can conjure up a cheese sandwich after this?”

“I’ll do my best, even though Gamp’s Laws of Elemental Transfiguration might have something to say about it.” Harry grins. He pulls George into a quick, fierce kiss. “For the record that _flash bastard_ wasn’t a patch on you.”

“I should bloody well think not.” George sounds like he’s rolling his eyes. He pushes Harry back on the bed and hovers over him. Even in the dark, Harry can see the curve of George’s smile and it puts him instantly at ease. “I bet he didn’t watch a single musical with you.”

“Doubt it. I didn’t bother getting his name.” Harry leans up on his elbows and captures George’s lips in another slow kiss. When they break apart, Harry’s voice is gruff. “Let’s not talk about him. He doesn’t matter. _You_ matter.”

“You matter too,” George replies, quietly. He brushes Harry’s hair back from his forehead, murmuring in that deliciously filthy way of his. “The problem with no lights is I could do all sorts and you’d never even see it coming.”

“Mmm.” Harry’s breath hitches at the thought and he arches into George a little. He lets out a yelp when George pulls him lower on the bed by hooking his arms beneath Harry’s knees. “If you fancy talking dirty to me again when you’re fingering me, I can’t say I’d mind.”

“I bet you wouldn’t.” George sounds like he’s smiling. “Are you always this demanding? I’m at least twenty-five musicals in, made up a whole new game of Quidditch and took you to Hamleys. Now I’m expected to talk dirty _and_ take my time over your cheeky arse, just to show you how I feel.”

“You bring out the best in me.” Harry shakes his head with a quiet laugh. “Anyway, if you do take your time then I’ll owe you one, won’t I? Next time you’re feeling like company you can ask me for orgasms rather than death-defying adventures over the Irish Sea.”

“Can I ask you for both?” George’s lips are warm and damp against Harry’s skin. He seems determined to kiss every inch of Harry’s body now they’re stretched out on the ample bed. It’s as though he’s using his mouth to read Harry like a map. “Flying then fucking. I always get horny after a good game of Quidditch. Must be all the adrenaline.”

“Me too,” Harry agrees. “Mind you, it could be because you look really good in Quidditch leathers.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” George slicks his fingers in such an obvious way it makes Harry’s entire body thrum with anticipation. It doesn’t take long before George’s long finger breaches Harry. It’s slick and slow and good enough that Harry clutches the sheets tightly in his fists, pressing closer to George with a low moan of pleasure. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies. His voice is breathless, and he finds himself blurting out his next words. “I like you so much, George. Everything’s stupid without you around.”

“Everything’s stupid without you too, love.” George is quiet and he gives Harry a slow kiss before proceeding to take him apart.

The careful, gentle way George goes about sliding his fingers into Harry’s body is both maddening and unbelievably hot. It feels so much better than magic. So _good_ with George’s long fingers nudging slowly inside his body. George builds up slowly at first, getting Harry writhing on the sheets with one, teasing finger. By the time he adds the second, Harry is so ready to be fucked he asks for it somewhere between the dizzying realisation _George Weasley is fingering me_ and _it’s better than anything_.

Harry’s begging seems to do the trick and George begins to fuck Harry hard with his fingers. He twists and curls them inside Harry’s body until everything is pure, blissful pleasure. Not for the first time, Harry is glad of the dark. It gives him permission to really let go, to spread his legs and ask for more without any inhibitions. George responds with a growl of pleasure. Harry’s grunts, the arch of his back and the kick of his legs when George gets it just right seem to spur him on. Fierce arousal consumes Harry, and everything is as filthy, wet and blissfully good as George’s promise implied when they were both kissing in the living room. 

“I’ve wanted to fuck you for so long,” George whispers. His words are even filthier with his fingers buried deep in Harry’s arse. “So _fucking_ long. Merlin, you feel so good. I just want to tie you to the bed and taste every inch of you.”

“You can do that.” Harry can’t speak as well as he’d like because his entire body feels like it’s on fire, but he tries to respond as best he can. “I’d like it.”

“I bet you would,” George says. His voice is throaty and desperately sexy. It’s not helped by the fact his warm breath is ghosts over Harry’s aching cock whenever he says anything. “I’d love to see you bound and blindfolded. I’d love to take my time with you. You’re so gorgeous, H. So fucking _good_.”

“ _Please_.” Harry bites back a moan as George twists and curls his fingers, dragging them back and out of Harry’s body. The loss leaves him empty and desperate. “ _Please_.”

What follows after is a heady, blissful blur. The rain hammers on the roof as George’s fingers breach Harry again, the sound of ragged breathing mixing with the slick slide of more lubricant as the stretch and twist of three fingers inside Harry’s eager body drives any coherent thoughts from his head. When he reaches the very edge of pleasure, George’s mouth works, wet and perfect over Harry’s cock. The sensations are overwhelmingly good and it’s not long before Harry comes for the second time that night, a sated contentment settling over his body. He reaches for George and kisses him slowly, shoving his hand between them and bringing George off until they’re both as messy and sweaty as one another.

“I didn’t watch the end of _Wicked_ ,” Harry admits, when they’ve both cast the necessary cleaning spells and are lying side by side, staring at the ceiling. “Everything changed when you started groping me after I was panicking about whether you fancied me back.”

“I wasn’t groping you.” George tips his head and grins at Harry. “I’d have liked to have been. I don’t think that woman behind us would have been too keen though.”

“Doubt it.” Harry laughs. He reaches for his wand and lights one of the small candles again, the light casting a warm, easy glow. He studies George properly for a moment. “What did you want to say to me before she told us to shut up?”

“I wanted to say it was about time.” George sighs and blinks at the ceiling. “You get it. All of it. You always have. There’s something about losing a twin I don’t even know how to start explaining, but you’re the one that understands the best. You know what it feels like to be in the dark with no light left.”

“Did you mind having the candles out before?” It occurs to Harry that for all he gets off in the darkness, it might not work for George. He burrows close to listen to the beat of George’s heart and sighs happily when George wraps a firm arm around him. “I should have asked.”

“I’d have said if I did.” George presses his lips to Harry’s hair and tightens his hold. “It all feels better when you’re here. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

“I’ve never met anyone like _you_ ,” Harry replies, fiercely. “Nobody would ever think of Hamleys, no one gets the musical thing and you know everything about me. You’re the thing that makes sense. The _person_ that makes sense.”

“I don’t make a lot of sense when you’re blowing me.” George sounds amused but his voice is thick with emotion. He adjusts their positions so he’s looking down at Harry, the curve of his smile visible even in the darkness. “You know that Hopelessly Devoted song from _Grease_ is dead depressing?”

“Not all of it,” Harry replies. He presses close to George. Everything is so warm and perfect. “All that stuff about hearts not wanting to let go.”

“I suppose there are some bits that work.” George presses a soft kiss against Harry’s lips. “Then there’s the one about mooning over you. I’ve been doing a bit of that.”

“You have not.” Harry laughs and prods George in stomach. “You spent your days mooning over Kenickie. All that leather.”

“Ever wondered why I always wear Bill’s old jacket when we go out together?” George tumbles them into an untidy pile. Everything’s so warm, so right and Harry’s more contented than he’s been in a very long time. “I hoped it might make you fall in love with me.”

Harry swallows as George pulls back, his face contorted as if he didn’t mean to say something so revealing. 

“It worked,” Harry says quietly. The realisation settles over him, not like the jolt of fear and panic from before. It comes to him in a quiet, warm rush, like being covered by a cosy blanket on a cold night. “I don’t know how or when, but it did.”

“An accidental love story.” George looks instantly relaxed and he turns back to Harry, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining. “I wonder if they’ll make a musical about us, one day?”

“Probably not,” Harry decides. “They wouldn’t be able to make it suitable for general audiences.”

To emphasise his point, Harry pulls George into a kiss that quickly becomes something more. He loses himself in the whispers, the encouragement, the _put your legs like this_ and the _wait there, that’s brilliant_. In one particularly heated moment the whispers sound like songs. His emotions and desire pulse through Harry like the best vibrations of music travelling through the floor of a crowded theatre. The rain falls like drums beating from a distant place and the flickering candlelight surrounds them like the glow from a stage.

The storm comes to an end and they fall into a deep sleep, pottering around the kitchen the next day in their underpants. Harry nicks the last piece of marmalade on toast and George puts salt in Harry’s tea instead of sugar in retaliation. They go back to bed and for the first weekend in a long time they spend Sunday indoors and neither of them consider going into work for one minute.

The following weekend they come clean to a crowded table of Weasleys, George’s hand laced with Harry’s under the table just like that afternoon in the theatre. 

Molly cries— _I knew it, my boys, my boys_—Arthur walks in on George snogging Harry in the kitchen which makes things awkward for a good half an hour, Ginny and Dean pack enough innuendo into the day that Harry’s cheeks are flaming red by the end of it and Ron begs George not to share any details that would put him off his parsnips. Percy invites them to go to see something by that Shakespeare bloke he’s always on about— _no snogging in the back row, mind! It’s not that sort of production_ —and Hermione decides they all need to go to the Leaky after for a celebratory pint.

The night ends with a kiss that leaves Harry weak at the knees as Bill and Charlie sing a rousing chorus of _You Charmed The Heart Right Out Of Me_.

“Fancy coming back to mine after?” George slings an arm around Harry’s shoulder, laughing as Bill and Charlie start another number. Harry doesn't miss the way Molly gives them a fond smile and whispers something to Arthur, hopefully not already planning the wedding. “I’ve just had a copy of the _Grease_ vinyl delivered.”

Harry decides he wants to go back with George very much and says so with a kiss, keeping it chaste enough that even Ron—notoriously queasy when it comes to public displays of affection involving his siblings or friends—can't complain. On their way to George's flat they grab a kebab and curl up on the sofa, stealing food from one another's plates as they listen to the _Grease_ soundtrack. George even does a terrible rendition of ‘Blue Moon’ that makes Harry glad he found a career outside the theatre.

The nights don’t feel as big and heavy anymore. They’re bold and bright, full of laughter and music. It occurs to Harry as he drifts off with George snoring beside him that sleeping is easier than it's been for a very long time.


End file.
